Luckily...

I came across Cillian Murphy on Regent Street yesterday and have realised that, despite the earlier fuss I made, he actually doesn't look a bit like Tim. My bad.

I was on Regent Street, in case you are interested, having just had a meeting with the people who would like me to pen a book for them - which enterprise seems to be coming along nicely - and, before that, to get a haircut.

I fear haircuts. So much so that I have had only 4 this decade, and the first was an unmitigated disaster of epic shortness and chunks instead of layers that made me burst into tears. I left it so long this time, however, because I have placed my trust in a stylist at Hob Salon on Baker Street, who did such a stonking job of shearing me last time that I have since refused to go anywhere else.

Which is all very well, but the pleasure of her magic hands costs £65 a pop, so once again it's been far too long. But I am thrilled to pieces with the result, it feels much lighter and I can now do that swooshy thing they do on adverts as I walk down the street.

Which is precisely what I was up to when Mr Murphy wandered past. He's shorter than I expected and didn't look very happy.

The picture of my swanky new hair came about thanks to a cunning plan to make sure I have visual evidence of what was done to it, so that next time I face Selina she won't throw up her hands in despair and tell me I've left it so long she has no idea what she did last time. Spacker that I am, I was only able to mutter something like: "Uhhhh...spiky bits". It is also for Best Mate, who is my style guru and very knowledgable about these things.

Once I reached the other end of Regent Street - stopping halfway to pick up a new hair clip that I will now place in the box with all my other hair adornments and forget about completely - I met the always wonderful Lorna and Yaz and headed for the nearest cinema to see Wanted. At which point, I might add, it rained on me and ruined my hair completely.

I won't comment on the movie itself, as I have plans to set up a movie review blog to bore you all with. The cinema, however, was a whole different kettle of cuttlefish. Two bored cashiers nearly made us late by processing the hundred metres of cinemagoers as slowly as they possibly could ("Luckily, there's not a queue," said Lorna) and then nobody told us there was another kiosk partway up the four - count 'em - escalators to our screen ("Luckily, we aren't running late," said Lorna) so we waited for a ridiculous amount of time to buy our popcorn ("Luckily, there's no queue here either," said Lorna) only to find it was £2.40 for a bottle of water. £2.40! For water! Made of what, putrified yak sweat? I really did love the movie though. And the girly time, that was marvellous. And James McAvoy, that was simply divine.

p.s. You have not quite completed your Willow reading for the day until you have nipped over to Kitty's blog by clicking here.